


Sinfall

by LostBerryQueen



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27654118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostBerryQueen/pseuds/LostBerryQueen
Summary: Mrs. Coulter raises Lyra from when she was a baby, without abusing her (because fuck those old men in La Belle Sauvage who said she would be a bad mother).
Relationships: Edward Coulter/Marisa Coulter, Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

When the baby was born Mrs. Coulter wailed for the nurse to take her away, because when she looked at the screaming red face—all she saw was Lord Asriel. The despaired voices of mother and baby echoed through the room. One nurse soothed Lyra, taking her to the nursery, while the other three worked to soothe the young 22-year-old. 

“It feels like my heart’s been ripped out,” Marisa said. She could barely breathe, and it felt as though someone had reached inside of her and pulled her heart all the way down through her middle and out of her. 

“Breathe, my dear, it’s normal to be distressed on your first time.” 

_Your first time._ Marisa vowed there would never be another. 

“But Edward—Edward—” 

“Will be back shortly—” 

“NO!” 

“He’ll see your beautiful daughter—” 

“No, no, no,” Marisa moaned. “He can’t—I must—” 

Marisa tried to get up from the bed but the nurses held her down. The nurses continued to soothe and fight off her distress and protests. The woman was strong, but after a very long half an hour she was worn out and fell into sleep. 

Sister Clara returned three hours later with the baby. She had given her formula and the baby was sleeping. 

“Lyra?” Tears streamed down the woman’s face and her body was wracked with heartbreak and terror. 

The golden monkey was curled on the bed, clutching his stomach as if in pain. Nicholas jumped up and nudged him encouragingly, licking his head to offer comfort. The golden monkey snarled and Sister Clara’s daemon jumped away. Sister Clara herself did not let the woman’s fear affect her own face. She smiled at the young mother and baby. 

“She looks like you,” Sister Clara said. “She has your eyebrows.” 

Marisa sat up in confusion then, and Sister Clara brought the baby closer so Marisa could peer at her. 

Marisa smiled and laughed, touching the infant’s small eyebrows. “She does.” 

“Here, would you like to hold her?” 

Before Marisa could protest, Sister Clara was sliding baby Lyra into her arms. The baby squirmed a little during the transfer, then settled. The horrible pain was gripping Marisa’s heart as she stared down at the child. 

“Take her back,” Marisa snapped. 

Sister Clara immediately gathered Lyra into her arms. 

“Take her to the nursery.” 

“Ma’am, they thought you might want to, that you might be ready to—” 

“No! Take her back at once!” 

The golden monkey snarled and Sister Clara hurried from the room. 

Lyra was fed on formula, though the staff kept this from Mr. Coulter, who was known to have a temper. The nurses protected Marisa, who pretended to spend time with the baby while she was catching up on her readings, the baby’s noise in the background a constant irritant. But Sister Clara had been right—Lyra didn’t look like Asriel at all, and so she didn’t need to be sent away. 

It wasn’t until Lyra was 8 months old that Mrs. Coulter held her again. The child had fallen asleep and Mrs. Coulter sent the nurses away. She stayed by the window with her book, looking up periodically at the baby, the golden monkey’s hair standing on end. About ten minutes after the nurses left the baby stirred and started to cry. Mrs. Coulter sighed and put her book down, taking this as her cue. She couldn’t stall any longer. 

Mrs. Coulter approached the crib. As she gripped the wooden frame and stared down at the child, she was reminded of another baby—Marcel. She had pinched the skin on his arm tightly to make him cry, then pretended to be innocently soothing him when Mother appeared. 

The golden monkey hopped up onto the edge of the crib to stare down at Lyra. Mrs. Coulter stroked her cheek, and the child stopped crying, looking up at her as though confused. Mrs. Coulter hummed. There was something captivating about Lyra, and it was spiritual, like light falling in beams through long church windows. 

Mrs. Coulter lifted Lyra into her arms, feeling immense comfort at having the child close—almost as though Lyra were her daemon and they had been separated for a long while. She took Lyra over to her seat where she often read. The book fell to the floor but she only spared a few thoughts for its wrinkled pages. 

She cradled the child and continued to hum, though she didn’t really know the melody of any children’s songs. The child didn’t seem to mind, and seemed completely charmed by Marisa’s voice. It was then that Marisa felt the joy that often came with manipulating people—but this time in a much purer form. Babies were humans after all, weren’t they? So why shouldn’t she be able to make them enamored with her just like she could charm anyone else? 

The monkey reached for Lyra’s daemon, which was a small white ermine. He stroked the baby daemon gently. 

“Pantalaimon,” He said, the power of the new name ringing through Marisa. 

Marisa stroked the monkey and held him close. He wrapped his arms around her neck and clung to her for comfort. He hadn’t spoken since Lyra was born, and so Lyra’s daemon, up until this point, had remained nameless. The golden monkey had never been named himself, because Madame Delamare’s daemon could not speak, and Marisa’s father’s daemon had refused to name the golden monkey because it was a mother’s duty to name the children. Marcel’s daemon had been named by Marisa’s stepfather’s daemon as Monsieur Delamare was not as particular about tradition. 

Marisa had come up with various names for her daemon throughout her childhood, but none of them had felt _right_. Eventually, she had just accepted that her daemon would not have a name. The fact that Lyra would not have to live out the same fate, was the beginning, the beginning of Marisa’s realization that change was possible. 


	2. Chapter 2

Lyra truly was Marisa’s daughter, as though she had sprung entirely from Marisa’s side of the family. She even had Marisa’s father’s olive skin and brown eyes. Although Lyra didn’t look like her father, she had her father’s restless mind. 

Edward seemed reasonably charmed by the daughter he believed was his, and Marisa’s worries of discovery eased. She spent more time with Lyra than Edward did. As a baby and toddler, she had let the nurses take care of Lyra’s less sanitary needs, but now that Lyra was half a decade old, she had found herself taking over more, giving Lyra baths and lessons and soothing her when she had nightmares. 

Today she was meeting up with a childhood friend in a pub. The woman had been born into the same social class as Marisa, but did not have Marisa’s talent for social climbing. 

Mrs. Coulter gave Lyra and her friend’s daughter wooden horse toys, and the two children moved around the pub, playing with them on empty tables. The employees glanced at them but said nothing. The pub was mostly empty. And Marisa had an air of authority that few would be brave enough to question. Light streamed in through the windows and the voices of the two children playing faded into the background. 

Marisa took a sip of her drink. “What happened to her eye?” 

Her friend made a face. “She was being rude, backtalking—and then she called me a bitch! I don’t know where she picked up that word from. So I taught her a lesson.” 

The grim satisfaction on her friend’s face was nothing like Madame Delamare. Marisa’s mother never would have hurt her in such an obvious way, it was always scratches to her daemon, below the fur where no one could see. It was mostly her brother who got tortured, and if he was ever bruised in a too obvious way—well he was a boy, and boys fought, didn’t they? The times that Madame Delamare _had_ lashed out at Marisa, were notable not only for the terror and pain they caused, but for the gleam in Madame Delamare’s eyes. That gleam of pleasure. 

Madame Delamare’s enjoyment of causing suffering, had fell to Marisa. She had “accidentally” tripped a classmate at just the right time so that her face hit a desk, and felt the flare of pleasure rising in her stomach at the girl’s cries of pain and her bloody, broken nose. She had pressed Marcel’s hand to the boiling pot of soup, relishing his squirms and his cries as the skin burned on metal. 

It was like the Authority had said. The sins of the parents fell to the child. 

Lyra wasn’t like that. She was so pure and innocent. She had shown genuine concern towards the girl, asking her what happened to her bruised eye. 

The thought of seeing that gleam of pleasure in her own child’s eyes, the thought of Lyra being infected— 

“I just remembered, Edward’s coming home early today...” Marisa barely bothered with the excuse, abandoning her friend at the barstool and approaching Lyra. 

“Lyra, we’re leaving.” 

“No!” 

The golden monkey’s hair stood on end, but Mrs. Coulter brushed it down impatiently. Rather than take a stern tone, Marisa knelt and gently ran her hands down Lyra’s arms. 

“We need to go now. I’ll explain in the car.” 

Lyra was surprised enough by the gentle, urgent tone not to protest as Marisa wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her out of the pub. 

Once inside the cab, as the surprise wore off, Lyra folded her arms and pouted. “Why did we have to leave?” 

Marisa normally would have scolded her for her tone, but instead she focused on the matter at hand. 

“Lyra, did you see Annie’s face?” 

Lyra’s eyes widened, and she nodded. 

“Do you know what happened to her?” 

Pan became a small bird and flew to Lyra’s shoulder. Then he became a mouse. He was breathing quickly and nuzzling into her neck. “Yeah,” Lyra said slowly. “She was—impolite,” Lyra pronounced the word childishly “so her mother did that.” 

“Well, her mother shouldn’t have done that.” 

“Why? The Authority,” Lyra again struggled with her pronunciation, speaking the word slowly and carefully like it was fine china she didn’t want to accidentally drop “says children have to do what their parents say.” 

“Children do have to do what their parents say. This means parents should be careful how they treat their children, as they have a responsibility of care—” 

Mrs. Coulter realized that the cab driver was listening intently. His eyes flicked away from her quickly when she met them in the rearview mirror. 

Mrs. Coulter sighed. “Lyra, no adult should ever harm you, and if they do, you’ll tell me, okay? Do you promise?” 

Lyra nodded. “I promise.” 

Pan became a weasel and moved across the seat towards the golden monkey who stroked his head. 

“Can we go back and see Annie now?” It was Pan who spoke up. 

Mrs. Coulter laughed and shook her head. “How about we go for ice cream instead.” 

Pan and Lyra brightened considerably. 


	3. Chapter 3

Marisa took a vacation to Bolivia under the guise of spending time with her lady friends. She was able to slip away from them to meet with Carlo, her lover and her soon to be connection for her new job. It was there that inspiration struck as she witnessed the child beggars, with deformed bodies and even more deformed daemons. Her own nameless daemon clung to her tightly, and she stroked his fur. The sins of the world, passed to those daemons. Maybe, the key to getting rid of sin, lied in daemons as well. 

With Lord Boreal’s referral, Marisa got the opportunity to pitch her project idea. Within three months, she was the new head of the Daemon Protection Agency. They took children from abusive homes, housed them in a facility where they experimented with ways of making them healthier by caring for their daemons, then fostered them out to Magisterium families. Many of the wealthy women were happy to have the new projects in their homes, as they made quite lovely conversation pieces at parties. 

If Mrs. Coulter’s projections were correct, the crime rates would drop considerably in the coming decades, saving the Magisterium time and money on executions. 

And that is the story of how Marisa Coulter became a brilliant child’s rights advocate and devoted her research to improving the lives of abused children. 

Lyra found out who her biological father was shortly after Edward Coulter died. Mrs. Coulter had moved her and Lyra into their London flat, hoping the change in scenery would ease Lyra’s mourning process. 

Asriel had arrived in a frenzy, making love to her and talking big about their future together. Lyra was not pleased with the new frequent houseguest though Marisa tried to keep him hidden. One morning while Marisa was in the shower and Lyra was eating breakfast, he gave her the alethiometer. 

He observed the teenage hatred in her eyes as he tried to explain how it worked. “It’s useless without the books,” he gave a charming smile. 

Lyra who was used to—and now nearly immune—to charm, accepted the instrument wordlessly. But soon enough, Lyra learned to read it. 

_Smash._ The hand-painted vase from Syria shattered. 

“Why didn’t you tell me who my father was??” Lyra thundered. 

The golden monkey growled. 

Mrs. Coulter had to hold him back, bringing him to her chest and hugging him tightly. She retreated into the kitchen and opened a newspaper remaining as still as possible as various items broke around the flat. 

The golden monkey’s thoughts were racing, and he went into panic mode as he thought about what Madame Delamare would have done to them. His body reacted as though she could appear any moment and punish them. Mrs. Coulter pet him soothingly, trying not to let his fear seep into her. 

“Ow!” 

Mrs. Coulter winced as she heard Lyra step in the shards of something she had broken. “Lyra, darling, come in here please,” she called, her voice perfectly serene. 

Lyra obeyed, arms folded across her chest and pouting. 

“Sit down.” 

Lyra obeyed again. 

“I didn’t tell you who your father was because Edward had a temper. Not unlike you.” 

“He didn’t!” 

“Not that you saw,” Mrs. Coulter sighed. “What Lord Asriel and I did was also—well the Authority—or the Magisterium at least would not have approved.” 

Lyra slumped. “I’m a bastard. I’m a product of sin.” 

Mrs. Coulter reached across the table and took Lyra’s hand. “Of course you’re not.” 

“But I am!” Lyra pulled her hand away. 

“Origins don’t define a person,” Mrs. Coulter said lamely. The golden monkey growled. 

Lyra made to storm off. 

“Lyra.” 

Lyra stopped in her tracks. 

“You can be mad at me, but you will clean up this mess.” 

“You didn’t clean up your mess.” 

“I am prepared to have a full discussion with you about it later, but right now, you have an apartment to clean.” 

“I don’t even know how. The servants always do that.” 

“Well the servants won’t be cleaning this.” 

Mrs. Coulter showed Lyra how to use a broom and dustpan—a tedious process—but Mrs. Coulter was used to teaching Lyra, and how difficult that could be. She was completely calm, and patiently explained it, but the golden monkey was highly agitated. 

By the time Lyra had finally cleaned the flat to Mrs. Coulter’s satisfaction, the sun was setting and Mrs. Coulter made them both chamomile tea. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

Mrs. Coulter played with a strand of Lyra’s hair, stroking her face and tucking it behind her ear. “No,” she smiled softly. 

“Then why is he—" Lyra gestured to the clearly agitated golden monkey. 

“Pay no attention to him,” Mrs. Coulter said, which was something like an inside joke between them. 

Mrs. Coulter laughed, but Lyra didn’t. “Are you still angry?” Mrs. Coulter asked. 

Lyra frowned and looked away, clenching and unclenching her fist. 

“Well, that’s fine, darling. You can be angry, but it’s not appropriate to destroy other people’s property.” 

Mrs. Coulter gently guided Lyra’s face back towards hers so that she could look into her eyes. Brown pools of conflict met her gaze. 

Weasel-formed Pan went over to the golden monkey and sniffed at him. The golden monkey turned his head away, shifting his paws uneasily. 

Mrs. Coulter took the golden monkey’s paw and swung him up into her lap, cuddling him like one might a small child. Lyra glanced at her own daemon, who took to grooming himself from the floor. 

“I’m sorry I broke all of that stuff,” Lyra said, though the words seemed almost painful for her to get out. Pan wandered closer to her. 

“Thank you for apologizing, Lyra. But you’re still grounded.” 

“I know. And I don’t care,” Lyra added boldly. “I just want everything to go back to the way it was before when fa— _Edward_ was alive and—” Lyra sighed. 

Mrs. Coulter let the golden monkey go and he jumped to the floor, reaching his hand out towards Pan. Pan accepted, nudging the golden monkey’s hand with his head. The golden monkey pet him. 

Mrs. Coulter didn’t know what to tell Lyra. She had no fond feelings towards Edward. His death had been a relief—if not a slightly guilt-inducing one. But Lyra had viewed him as her actual father—sure, a distant one—but she had loved him. It wouldn’t be right to ruin Lyra’s memory with the truth: if Edward had known who Lyra really was, he very likely would have killed her. 

“What do you think of Lord Asriel?” Mrs. Coulter asked, changing the subject. 

“An arrogant bastard!” Lyra said, brightening. 

Marisa laughed. 

“He thinks he’s so clever, going on and on, but he—” Lyra stopped, and she and Pan exchanged a look. 

The golden monkey and Marisa became alert. 

Lyra looked down, fiddling with her hands. 

“Yes?” Marisa prompted. 

Instead of continuing, Lyra distracted her mother by wrapping her arms around her. Mrs. Coulter hugged her daughter back. 

“He doesn’t look like me,” Lyra said. 

“No, he doesn’t.” Mrs. Coulter kissed her forehead. 

Lyra snuggled closer. She had almost told her mother about the alethiometer. For some reason, she felt that she should keep it a secret. 


End file.
